


The Third Gift

by adonais



Category: Regency Love (Visual Novel)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Smut, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adonais/pseuds/adonais
Summary: Mr and Mrs Curtis spend their first Christmas at Penridge.
Relationships: Demetrius Curtis/Protagonist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	The Third Gift

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while drunk and edited it even drunker. Enjoy!

You draw your new woollen robe more tightly around you, but it makes little difference. The fire across you is larger than the one in Bradley House’s library, and twice as large as those in your childhood home, but it is not enough to warm the vast rooms of Penridge, far up north in Yorkshire. Last week you arrived here as the Lady of the Manor for the first time, in a different manner to months ago when you sought out Mr Curtis after his abrupt disappearance from Darlington. That had been at the end of summer, when the gardens were in full bloom, when Penridge was a dark, unhappy place for your husband.

But as much as you have made Bradley House your home, Penridge remains the Curtis family seat. You are determined to create new memories and traditions here, and it was this determination that had persuaded your husband to spend your first Christmas here.

So now, on the evening of the 25th of December, you are alone and cold in Penridge’s immense library, trying to ignore the chill while you read a collection of Bacon’s essays.

You have lost count of how many times you’ve re-read a particular paragraph by the time you hear approaching footsteps, and the library door opens with an echo.

‘Goodness, it’s cold!’ your husband exclaims. ‘You’ll catch a chill – ah, there’s only one fire lit!’

Your frugality has left you feeling a little foolish and rather defensive. ‘It could be colder.’

Mr Curtis is unimpressed by your response. His brow is furrowed as he moves towards you, then, to your surprise, manoeuvres you and your sofa closer to the fire, until you’ve reached the edge of the thick rug in front of the hearth. A quick kiss on your forehead, and he rings bell you’ve been remiss to use. He’s lit one fire by the time the footman arrives and helps with the other. Instructions for tea, biscuits, and port, and then he is finally beside you.

You shift towards his warmth, and Mr Curtis stills for a moment. In the three months you have been married, you have noticed the slight hesitation, the unspoken uncertainty.

So you reach for his hand, enjoying his heat even as he gasps at how cold they are.

‘I have neglected you,’ he says, contrite. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me.’

You know too well he is regretting this decision to visit Penridge, so you move closer to your husband and divert him by other means.

‘Your penance is to tell me about Mr Simmons’ letter,’ you say. ‘Has the crisis been averted?’

Mr Curtis remains hesitant. ‘Yes – for now, at least. Mr Simmons has had some trouble finding Latin instruction manuals that suit his students. He was asking if we should dispense with that part of the curriculum entirely.’

You chuckle at your husband’s dry tone. ‘Mr Curtis, dispensing with the Classics? Not a chance!’

He relaxes at your voice. It has always been like this: he is taut and terse, not quite knowing what to do in your presence. All he needs is your patience, your reassurance that you have chosen him, and your unspoken promise that you will choose him henceforth, always.

‘So what was your solution?’ you ask.

‘I wrote out a few instructions and exercises Mr Simmons could use for the children.’

Your smile widens. ‘Ah, of course. That explains your prolonged absence.’

‘My apologies. I…had lost track of time. It was not my intention to abandon you, tonight of all nights.’

You untangle a hand from your husband’s and reach for his face. The stubble on his chin speaks of how comfortable he has grown with you, how he no longer needs to hide away what he considers imperfections.

‘My dear Mr Curtis, your dedication and knowledge are qualities I most admire. I’m under no illusion about whom I’ve married.’

His eyes darken. He catches your hand.

‘Are you not?’

His voice is deep, and challenging. It sends a thrill down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

‘No, Mr Curtis, I assuredly am _not_ under any illusions as to who you are.’

He is closer now, close enough for you to smell the mulled wine on his breath and to see how dark his eyes have grown. Close enough for you to lean forward and catch his lips with your own, if you so wish.

But he shifts, his nose grazing your cheek as he moves to your ear, his mouth hot, his voice smooth and deep.

‘Well then, Mrs Curtis, I suspect you’ll have no objections if I am to claim my third Christmas gift now.’

You let out a small sound, breath uneven. You cast your mind back to this morning, when you exchanged gifts, when Mr Curtis marvelled at your two gifts for him: a collection edition of John Donne’s poetry and a deep green waistcoat brocaded in silver. You had both been amused upon discovering his gifts were similar: a collection of Greek tales to help with your budding enthusiasm in the language, and the heavy woollen robe you’re currently wearing. Now, as Mr Curtis pulls out your hairpins and tangles his fingers in your curls, you are aquiver with anticipation.

He draws back when your hair is loose, the long tresses tumbling over your shoulders. Mr Curtis reaches out to touch your cheek again, then your ear, then down your neck.

‘Dear Lord, but you are beautiful.’

Then he is on his knees before you, and draws you close, and buries his face in your bosom. His fingers brush over your breasts, sending another thrill down to your core. You gasp and lean into him, wanting more. Your husband has proven a passionate lover in the short months you have been joined in matrimony, and you long now for his kisses against your skin.

But he pauses again, and you do not welcome the cool air between you. ‘Are you certain? You do not know what I…what I have longed to take from you. I have wished for it, but I have never—’

You pull him back to your heart, where he belongs. ‘ _Yes_ , Demetrius. Take it.’

He groans, and you moan back in kind. The sounds unleash something inside him, perhaps the control he has kept, even in these blissful months of your marriage. Without warning, he lifts up your skirts, pushes your legs apart, and latches his mouth onto your cunt.

You gasp again, in surprise, in pleasure. You are a married woman, no stranger to the bedroom, yet never could you have dreamt of this: this heat of his insistent mouth, licking and sucking at your most sensitive; this vision of your dark-haired husband between your legs, glowing with the flames behind him; these strong and slender hands, one caressing your breasts and the other sliding up your thigh; this finger, then another, finding your cunt and slowly fucking it, even as this tongue flicks and licks and lavishes your nub of pleasure.

When he pauses for a moment, you growl and grab his hair, drawing him back to you. Your husband chuckles and begins to tease you, keeping his kisses soft and closed, his fingers shallow. Ever so often, he swirls your nub with his tongue, leaving you wild and breathless.

‘Demetrius James Curtis! I insist you cease this nonsense!’

He draws back a little and breaths cool air on your privates. ‘Oh? Well then, if my wife commands.’

And he returns in earnest, licking and sucking and fucking. You writhe and moan, and tighten your walls around his fingers, sending more pleasure shooting through your body. The pleasure builds, and builds, and builds until it reaches its peak – and there it suspends for a breath, an eternity, before you are filled with white heat, over and over again, around his hot fingers and against his hot mouth, over, and over, and over.

When you finally regain your senses, your husband is still kneeling in front of you, his fingers still buried. Against the glow of the fire, you see how pleased he is – even more so than on your wedding day, or your wedding night. He withdraws his fingers, then brings them to his nose, inhaling deeply.

‘My darling, thank you for the marvellous gift.’

Then he sucks his fingers, his wicked tongue darting out to clean them carefully.

The heat in your core returns, but you keep your breathing even as you replace your skirts and slide onto the rug beside him.

‘Mr Curtis, this is a great injustice. You have your gift, but…’ You reach out and find the delicious hardness between your husband’s legs. ‘I have been deprived.’

‘Is that so?’ he replies, the laziness in his voice belying the renewed heat in his eyes. ‘A great injustice indeed. How do you propose we right such a wrong?’

You hesitate slightly, and begin to understand Mr Curtis’s uncertainty before his cryptic request. What you wish to propose is unheard of amongst the genteel circles, and would most definitely be frowned upon if discovered.

Yet your union has not adhered to conventions. Neither you nor your husband cares much for conventions. The pleasures he has just given you falls not under conventions.

You take comfort in this realisation, and let the comfort grow into equal amounts of affection and desire.

‘Why, it’s quite simple: I wish to claim _my_ third gift.’

And you do.


End file.
